Dreamer (Breaking at the Cracks)
by ChasingRainbows90
Summary: A continuation of one of my other fics.
1. Wanting Memories

**This has been on my computer now for a little while as having written this part (and part of the second) I wasn't really sure where I wanted the story to go or even if there was a story beyond the end of that second part. So I sort of just left it - plus I'm always a bit shaking on continuing fics I've already written (despite occasionally having good intentions of sequels). But I had an idea for a story that could follow this - though I was unsure of the realism. But thanks to some very kind people who I have asked questions, I think it could work (though I am unsure of how well I can pull it off). Anyway I hope that this is ok :) **

There is silence and yet your head rings with the sound of a scream that you cannot push from your thoughts. It mingles with the silence becoming part of it, though you know that makes little sense. To be frank nothing makes sense to you in this moment, because what has happening; what is happening is senseless. You want to scream, to run away and yet you cannot do so. You cannot seem to move from the spot where you are rooted, eyes the only part of your body that haven't frozen. You find your gaze moving over those in the room, though you are near certain you are no longer seeing things correctly. You can see the spot where your friend had stood, only you know she left sometime before. You have no real idea of how long ago it was – mere minutes or longer – time no longer has any bearing for you. You had seen her go, seen the way she had bowed her head from you, so that you wouldn't be able to see the sheen of tears that dance in her eyes, waiting to roll down her cheeks unashamedly though she cannot do so in front of you. You do not know to where she runs, whether she will seek comfort in somebodies arms or if she will slip down a wall somewhere and allow herself to break having seen something she wants so desperately to forget, heard a sound she will never forget.

You see staff members who have bustled in to the room. You hadn't realised the emergency bell had been pulled, perhaps it had been muffled by that scream or overtaken by the silence that seems to have claimed your hearing. You can see their lips moving though you cannot hear the words they speak, cannot even follow the shapes their mouths make. You know what they are saying. You know it without needing to hear it.

One of the doctors, a man who seems unfamiliar and yet you are sure you must know him, holds in his arms a bundle. A bundle that had been in the arms of the woman still crouched at the foot end of the bed, doing things he cannot take stock off. You had forgotten that there is more to come, that things do not end with the birth of the child.

The man holding the bundle is someone to whom you have probably stood next to in the lift, behind in the canteen queue. You have probably smiled and nodded an acknowledgement in his direction, perhaps chatted at Albie's. But you cannot smile at him now. You wonder perhaps whether you will ever smile at anybody again, because it seems in this moment that, this is an impossibility. You will, you think, force it. A false twisting up of the lips but you, and everyone else, will know how very fake it is. A tormented grimace masquerading as a look that had once seemed so natural on your face – because you are one of those people who smiles often. You are known for your cheek, and your boyish charm. Though now you think that is lost to you.

This man is holding the bundle still, and you know he is confirming what is known. He is looking at the bundle and then back up at those around him. It strikes you in this moment, that he has seen more of your child than you have. You have seen scan images and seen an imagined child in your dreams, but you have seen the real infant for only seconds as she was passed, still and quiet, from the arms of the midwife to another midwife who had wrapped her in a towel before she was passed to the man who now holds her. It strikes you that indeed you should be the one gazing at your child, taking her in, drinking in every least millimetre of her tiny body for this is all you shall ever have off her.

You turn away now because you know what is coming next. You have seen the man making movements to turn also and you are not ready. You know without doubt, and yet they are turning to you and that means hearing those words and next steps. And you are not sure that you are ready now. So you turn away, and look at the woman on the bed.

This is the woman that you love. You need to tell her this, but your throat is swollen shut with emotions that you are trying so desperately not to show. You are unaware of the tears that stream down your face, and the ragged way in which you breath. You are aware of so very little, due to blurred eyes and altered senses. But somehow you see. You see her now and that is almost harder to bear. You have avoided looking to her face, and now you know why. You don't think you have ever seen her quite like this.

She is exhausted, you know this and yet you are unsure if you see evidence of it. You see the way she is lain in the bed, and think that may be your proof that she has no energy to prop herself up but it is not this that your eyes focus on. Instead your eyes are drawn to hers. Eyes which confuse you because they seem so conflicted in their look. In so many ways, she is blank before you. Everything wiped clean of the canvas that makes her the woman who know and love, and yet there is still something there. A wild panic perhaps though you cannot be certain, there is so much which is unreadable about her now.

You pride yourself on knowing her, knowing her better than she knows herself you think because she has a twisted logic. You know that despite her outward confidence, the control and manner with which she runs – rules – her life, both professional and personal, that inside she is so very different. You know that she is quiet when it comes to her own truths, that she would rather the reality of them bubble beneath the surface until they become projected on to another and expelled in a way which means she doesn't have to reveal anything of herself. It is her defence, a way of protection though it causes more harm. You know all of these things about this woman. And yet in this moment you know so little of her. You do not know what she needs, or how to comfort her because you cannot seem to read her. It is as if the life, the soul that resides within her has slipped away with the bundle in the arms of the man who you know is now facing you.

You think it would be easier to comfort your friend, the one who has disappeared. You know that you would wrap your arms around her, hold her until she can shed no more tears. And you know that during the time, her own arms would come around your body until you are entwined in each-others embrace, that she will continue to hold you until your own tears have run dry and you are left with a shaking body, and the knowledge that even though, for now, you can cry no more that still things are not better. You have done this with her before, drawn comfort from the arms of your dearest friend, bodies twisted so it is hard to tell where one of you ends and the other begins. But while she may need you, she is not your priority right now. Your priority is this woman on the bed, and yourself, and that tiny still little bundle who you still hope will wriggle and draw breath though you know you that this is merely a dream that cannot be realised.

You hear your name joined with hers in the voice of the man, or you presume it has to be him as the only male other than yourself in this room. You force your eyes from her face, shocked by the relief at no longer having to see something that scares you in those eyes. The crush of guilt at that threatens to overwhelm you when twinned with the grief that already seems set out to destroy you.

You try to force your ears to concentrate, to listen to words that you do not want to hear. He is telling you things that you do not want to hear, that this happened days ago and he asks had you not noticed any changes and you force yourself to shake your head because she had not told you anything. She makes no sound from the bed, and you presume that you have answered well enough for her, though you are near certain she is not hearing, or seeing, anything in this room.

You listen, though there is no explanation of why you are in this situation. Finally they say words that you had wanted to hear for so long though not like this, never had you wanted it like this. Finally they are asking you and the mother of your child, for you are still mum and dad even though you're child has never drawn in the air of this world, if you want to hold and spend time with your daughter. They tell you practical things about this, about the time they can have together only you are not really listening. You are waiting now, for the time you will be able to spend with them as a family. No matter how brief it will be.

Only then there is a voice that you don't quite recognise, though it is so very familiar. It says only one word "no" and you understand. You understand that she is telling you, and them that she cannot do this. She cannot bear to do this and that shatters your heart all the more. You cannot bear the idea of never seeing her, and never being with her and so with a voice hoarse and unsure you ask whether you can spend time with her, even though the mother does not wish too.

You hate the idea of leaving her, and you ask if someone can be phoned for her, someone to sit with her. You have to rack your brain for someone, for she has no family on whom to call. No maternal grandparents to be phoned with news you never want to give. You shake your head as you think of the phone calls you will have to make to your family. You do not speak often but you know they are waiting for news of the newest member of your clan; for details of the inevitable party, the celebration of a new Maconie.

Finally you know. Your mind comes to rest on the person who is her family despite no blood relation. You think of her friend. You give details to the waiting midwife who nods and goes to make the call. You ask, quietly, if it is alright to wait until he arrives before you spend time with your daughter, because you do not want the woman to be alone though it breaks you to think that the baby may be, even for a short time. Another person – midwife or auxiliary you aren't sure – nods and tells you she will get the baby ready in another room and that you can join them when you are ready.

You will never be ready you think. But you need to do this and so you wait, until the second person returns and tells you that the friend is on his way down. You wait while the first midwife, the one whose sure hands had guided your daughter in to world, delivers the organ that has sustained life for so many months. You wait, never wanting the door to open and having to face someone familiar because this will just be the start. You will have to repeat this so many times, though they will all know, still you will be faced with sympathetic faces and you will have to learn to cope with that without shattering in to pieces each time. You wait, each second bringing you closer to facing the reality of what awaits you in another room. You wait, unable to look at the frozen blank face of the woman. And then you hear the door, and your wait is over.


	2. One Step at a Time

**This was originally a part of what is now part 3 but I just thought they worked better separately. I'm not sure how many parts this will be but it does have a definite ending / end point in my head. Hopefully this is ok.**

The man you see is hesitant to enter the room, and you try to force a smile of greeting on to your face, though you know you do not manage it. You are somewhat impressed though that you were even able to make some sort of effort for him, you are grateful that he has come. He has other things to worry about, and you are all too aware of this, but you know too that he cares so deeply for the woman you love. It is a love like the one you share with your best friend, though in many ways still so very different. He comes closer and you think you see something like fear in his eyes. You come to realise that even though life and death are something you all deal with on a daily basis, it is a very different beast when it affects you this closely. Your professional persona suddenly no longer works, and you are once again altogether human like those relatives to whom you talk. You see it in his eyes the conflict between trying to be the doctor, and being the man; the friend. You know the personal side is winning, though you do not acknowledge this, allowing him to deal with it in the way he chooses just as you need too.

You say words with a fuzzy tongue. You cannot recall what these words are or their meaning and yet to him they make sense or at least based on the tilt of his head, and the reaction in his face you assume they do. You know this is your cue, that for the time being he is the one who will care for your love while you walk in to another room to hold for the first time your daughter.

You are still standing though, and you know you have to force your feet to move, only they seem to have forgotten the process of walking. You thinking for a moment of how, a year from now, you could have been guiding your baby through her own first steps. Gently holding her hands to support her and letting go to watch her take tentative wobbles on her own two feet, knowing all the while that you are there waiting to catch her. But now that isn't too be, and instead you are having to teach yourself the motions. Right foot, left foot. You can hear the voice in your head telling you, forcing you to remember things that are natural and yet no longer feel that way. The world is not the place you knew, and your head cannot keep pace.

Somehow you are moving. One step. Left foot. One step. Right foot. You congratulate yourself on each movement, as you would have done for your baby. Her own personal cheerleader for life, celebrating each milestone no matter how very small. But these have been robbed from you and this is all becoming so very real, under the silence that still presses its weight on your shoulders.

Hand on door-handle, push down. You remember that action, and the door swings open. You step through it, steps still shaky and unsure. Each one bringing you closer, and you wonder how many more are to come until you are there in that room. You see a member of staff close by and you know she has been waiting for your appearance. You know there is a door to the side of her, and suddenly the space between you is the distance ran by marathon runners, and yet you know it will take seconds to cross. Time and space are muddled in your mind.

The journey to see her is too long, Your arms ache for the weight of the baby girl's body despite never having felt it against you. You have dreamt of it, for longer even than she had existed as a bundle of cells. But time is short; The time until that moment is brief, the one where you have to say hello and goodbye, to hold something in your arms which should be filled with life and yet will lie so very still against you. You are ready, and you are not at the same time. You are conflicted more than you have ever known.

And then that walk is over. You are mentally exhausted, your whole body wearied. The person guides you in to a room. You see now the colour of the uniform, a midwife who tells you in hushed tones that her name is Rebecca. She offers you the smallest of smiles, but you can see the sadness in her eyes. She gravitates towards a bassinet in the centre of the room, and you find yourself staring at it. You know there is one similar in the flat, waiting for a newborn to lie within it, yet there is something different about this one and you cannot work out why. You had never expected to see your baby in a bed like this within the confines of the hospital, you were prepared for the fishbowl cot, the baby contained within clear plastic so you can watch them for every precious moment, spotting cues for feeding and getting to know and bond with this new little life.

You are aware now that you are enclosed in this room, and all air seems to desert you. You think once more of running, you think you need to be sick; your stomach revolting. You are frozen. You cannot move closer, yet you cannot run. You are stuck with no air, an organ churning dangerously within you. You are scared. Scared of this, and all that is to come. You are trying to be strong, and yet you are starting to feel yourself crack. You are trying hard, and falling fast. But you need to last longer. You cannot let her see you like this, though you know her eyes will never see you.

In the other room you were forcing yourself to be strong for the woman, who was as frozen as you, whose essence had slipped away with the scream she had emitted from her core. Here you are strong for a child, who is still and quiet in the bassinet; waiting. Waiting for you and you are frozen, unsure. You are conflicted, each emotion and it's counterpart fighting a battle within you until you do not how to think or feel. She is waiting, and yet she isn't. So like the woman in the other room. She is waiting for you too, and yet you fear she is lost to you. And all the while you are trying to work out how to be strong for yourself, for you fear there is no-one who is there for you. You think you have to be the strong one, the one who supports, who holds. The one who has to try to mend the cracks and splinters in the broken heart and body of another, when your own is falling apart. You are the one and this scares you.

So much is happening, battering you and you are scared. Scared because you don't know how to fix this, because this situation seems to be wholly unfixable. There is no medicine which can be taken, no words that can be spoken to make the ache feel easier. You cannot quite imagine a future without the pain that has started to build and overwhelm you, very second pressing harder, hurting more.

You feel your legs waver, and you squeeze shut your eyes as you try to regain yourself, though you aren't quite sure who you are anymore. And in the black of your eyelids you see, you see the image that has danced in your dreams for so many months. The woman, auburn hair fanned out behind her, glistening in the light from the sinking sun. She is laughing and smiling, as she dances with your child in her arms. They are beckoning for you to join them, to dance with them in the garden. The child already the miniature of her mother – though your curls are starting to become more prominent in the flaming hair - though she is still so small.

And then you open your eyes, the image disappearing in that moment though you wish you could hold it with you forever. That it could be your future. One step. Left foot. One step. Right. You repeat the mantra as you step closer to the basinet. You are scared, you aren't ready. And yet you have to be. You want to get this over, yet you never want it to end. One step. Left. One step. Right.


	3. I Will Carry You

**I had intended to post this much sooner but I have struggled so much to write this part - and it has been rewritten numerous times. It did originally have a little bit on the end that kind of leads in to the main plot of this story, however, I really think that took away from this part as it currently stands and so the bit I have taken will now form the beginning of part 4 (which I had written bits off but will now probably change). Plus the fact this part has ended up way longer than I'd intended. I am very sorry for any errors in here, and I hope that this part is alright. **

Before you know it you are by the basket in which your daughter lies. You walked slower, with smaller steps to cross the room, each one taking more effort and energy than you thought you possessed. The mere act of breathing seems to take more than your able to give right now, and yet somehow your body is remembering to do it for you, though so many other natural abilities have deserted you.

You remind yourself that even though you are stood here, your eyes are still gazing outwards; that you haven't looked down to drink in the sight of your baby, which is why you are here. In truth, the reality of seeing her scares you. You have seen death, seen people in the final moments before it takes them and have cared for them after. You have stood in the operating theatre and assisted in the removal of organs to save the life of another – life coming from death. You have laid people out, and you have opened windows to allow the person's spirit to fly free. You can't remember when or why you started that, whether it had been a patient request years before or words whispered by a colleague but it is something you do even now.

You realise this as you stand in this stalemate, unable to move back to free yourself yet unable to move forward and gaze downwards that you are scared of seeing your baby. You hadn't wanted to acknowledge that fear, oh you had known you were scared but you had not wanted to admit that you were of this. What father you think should be scared of seeing the face of his little girl and yet the reality is you do not know what to expect. You have seen death occur in this world, and that you understand. But this, this is a child who has died within the womb and you do not quite know – cannot quite think or recall – how that may change things. You are scared to look because of what you may see, that it will further steal that image within your mind.

But you have to look – you feel you cannot and yet you think you have too. You want to and yet you don't and the conflictions within you rise once more. You cannot know how long you stand before you finally steel yourself, you breathe in slowly, deeply before you release it in a ragged rush. You cast your eyes downwards, the movement hesitant and wary. You see first the material of the little bed, delaying the moment your eyes move to her face.

And then you see her, and your fears for a moment abate. Your child is beautiful as you had expected her to be, and you scold yourself for believing she could be anything less than this. You drink in every little piece of the perfect baby who lies before you. She is delicate, she is how you had imagined her to be from the downy red hair on her tiny head to the slight pout of her rosebud lips. You are overwhelmed by the beauty of this little life who you had helped create, though you see so few of your own traits in her. You allow your gaze now to take in the fact she is wrapped, lightly, in a soft towel and you ache to hold her and yet you do not want to break this moment, for you know when you touch her things will change once more. You will once again have to face reality, for as you watch her you cannot quite accept the truth. That someone so very perfect could be taken from you, you had expected signs that something could have been wrong that caused this and yet there is nothing visible. She is altogether perfect, and somehow that makes it all the more wrong – though you do not see how it can be any more wrong, and you face an overwhelming guilty at having expected anything less than perfection reflected in the face of your child.

Your eyes play tricks on you as you stare down at the perfect being, and your own heart rate quickens. You know it is an illusion, and yet you cannot stop the hope from building. You force yourself to draw your gaze from your baby to look to the midwife who is still standing so close. You can see the way her own gaze moves between the two of you, though she makes no other movements and once more you feel a crush of disappointment as you are forced to accept the illusion as nothing more than that. If it had been more she would have moved, but you see in her face a sympathy and you know she had expected this. She had expected you to see a movement in the chest that is not really there because the mind expects that to happen.

"Can I hold her?" you do not recall the words coming in to your mouth, or even having planned to say them. They do not sound like the come from you, and yet you know they do. You think that it is strange you are asking this woman for permission to hold your own child and yet you feel that it is necessary. You think for a moment about whether you are even allowed to hold her, worry that you may be denied the weight of her body in your arms. Perhaps it would be easier never to hold her, but you ache to do so and you know that if you don't you will ache for it your entire life. And yet one hold and you may never want to let her go. You look to the midwife who gives you the smallest hint of a smile.

"Of course you can" her answer comes gently, "her skin's fragile but you can hold her" the added words scare you, as you contemplate further that by holding your beautiful girl you could cause damage to her fragile skin. She is so very perfect, and you hate the idea that you could do anything that could hurt her, though a part of your mind tells you she will feel no pain. Still you fear it but you find yourself looking back in to the depths of your baby's bed and that ache becomes too much. You move shaky and unsure arms to reach in and you allow a finger to trail gently across her tiny cheek. You feel cold coming from the cot but you push the idea from your head as you slowly gather the little bundle and lift her in to your arms. You bring it against your chest and you cradle her.

"Hello beautiful girl" you whisper the greeting to your daughter, arms beginning to rock her though she emits no cries. It feels natural to do so, like your body is on autopilot. You gaze down at that little body. She feels nothing like you had expected, like no other baby you've ever held and yet she never would have been like another other baby because she is yours.

You want nothing more than to run with her, to hold her against you and run to a place where you can keep this beautiful child with you forever more and yet you know, you know your time together will be so very brief. You watch her so closely, expect so many things and yet slowly you are accepting they won't happen. You cradle her and try to find the words to say all that you need to say in the time you have, but you are overwhelmed and you know that all the time in the world is less than you require.

"You can have as long as you want with her" the midwife talks gently, and you want to curse her for breaking your moment with your daughter but instead you look up at her because you feel like you owe her that much, "but I'd recommend you keep her in the cot some of the time, it will help keep her cool" you hate the sound of the words because even in your brain's addled state you understand what she is telling you. You nod solemnly and turn back to your daughter.

You find yourself walking, though you don't quite know why. You carry her in your arms towards the window and you reposition her slightly to look out on to the world with unseeing eyes. You know there is no view from here, and yet you want her to know the world. You swallow hard.

"I'm sorry your mummy isn't here" words whispered to a baby girl "she loves you, I need you to know that ok? But she can't do this right now and so you're stuck with me, for now. I'm sorry about that too because your daddy doesn't really know what to do either" you are unaware now of the presence of somebody else in the room beside the two of you, instead you are concentrating only on your baby girl in your arms. You alternate between drinking her in and looking out on to the world.

"We've waited so long to meet you" you trail a finger down her cheek, as you talk to her, trying hard to stop the tears that threaten to fall. You don't want to cry in front of your baby girl, not yet at least, "so many people have wanted to meet you, and to love you but no-one more than me and mummy. We had so many plans for you, beautiful girl, and so many dreams. You won't remember, but I used to talk to you when you were inside your mummy, I used to tell you all of these things that I wanted for you, all the places we'd visit and explore together, all the adventures I had planned. Your mummy used to pretend I was being silly, that you couldn't hear or understand me, but I think secretly she loved it that there was this whole life awaiting us, a new beginning that would start the moment you were placed in to our arms, it probably started long before when you were little more than a bundle of wee cells – beautiful wee cells though – but our plans started with the moment you'd arrive and we'd officially be a little family" you choke back tears now as you try to comprehend these plans that you had formulated in the dark, as you had watched over the rounded abdomen which held your daughter. These plans which now seem too big for your brain to understand. As you look out in the night sky, you think more of the much smaller things, the things that you hadn't really thought of, the things you had taken for granted that now you won't experience.

The realisation causes the tears to slip down your cheek. You think of those outside of this room, how in other rooms just like the one in which Jac lies that other parents are welcoming babies in to this world, that they'll hear a strangled cry as the child is forced from the warmth of the womb to the harsh world. You think of how you would give anything to be in their place, rather than standing here with the bundle in your arms, the bundle so still and yet you cannot bear to think of switching this baby for another. This is your daughter, and if you were in the shoes of one of those other men, that baby you'd hold wouldn't be the beautiful being you cradle now. And the realisation that the man whose place you have taken, would take yours; that it would be he who stands here, their world broken.

You envy them still, and for that you feel a guilt. You think of the actions they will be taking, little things that perhaps they grumble about good naturedly, but things they do not realise the significance of. They take these things for granted, because they are so little, because they are natural, nothing special. They are things that as a parent you do, part of the responsibility of raising a child and yet these are the very things that have been taken from you.

"Mr Maconie" you hear a voice, the midwife, and you turn from the night sky to look at her face, she is giving you that look at you wonder how long you have been stood frozen with the baby in your arms. For a moment you think you need to place her back in the cot for a time, to help her, to give you longer but you never want to let her go. You don't want to lose the weight of her, and yet you want to have longer, you want more time with her as she is, "is there anything you'd like, as one of your memories of your daughter?" you hear the gentle question and you feel the splintering of the pieces of your already shattered heart. There will be so few memories, and you realise her meaning, that you are creating some of the last; that this is one of your last opportunities to do so. You feel the damn dissolve completely, as the tears roll down your cheeks, the sobs you had wanted to hold back burst free. There are so many things you want, and cannot have. You look down at your baby girl, your beautiful girl wrapped in her towel and you think of those other fathers, with their precious bundles. You force yourself to find the words.

"I want to change her nappy" the words slip free and you think of it, such a simple, stupid request and yet it matters to you. Your child is naked in your arms beneath the towel, you stare down at her, "I want to be a proper dad" you think of those other fathers, changing nappies something which will become second nature though they will complain, they will wrinkle their noses as it turns to green but lament that perhaps it is easier than the sticky tar that makes up those first few stools, but for you there will only be this one. You think of so many outfits that will go unworn, and how other parents will switch their child between clothes just to get wear, because they cannot decide between each adorable outfit. They will burp their child, tell bedtime stories until they know the words by heart and wonder if they will go insane after the next retelling, nursery rhymes will be sung in the dead of night when the words become jumbled and songs mixed up because the brain is lacking in sleep and things that had once been familiar no longer are. They will take these things for granted, will complain about them and yet he would trade so much to have them for himself – yet he knows the truth, that if he had them, he would be amongst those who complain not thinking that for some those moments are what they desire most.

"We can do that" the midwife gives him a smile, you had thought you request sounded stupid and yet in her reaction you see that she doesn't feel that way, that perhaps it is something she has done time and time before, a fact that scares and saddens you, that you little girl won't be the first or last time she has to do this, that you will not be the last to feel this way, "do you have any clothes you want to dress her in, or do you want me to find you something?" the question is so gentle and you have to force your mind to work, to remember. You know there is the bag that had been stored in the office but what is in there for the baby you are unsure, you hadn't even known the bag was there. You think of the clothes at home, but you cannot return to get them.

"Jac has a bag but" you pause, the sentence sounded so normal despite your tears, like the words you used every day. You don't want things to sound that way, you see the way she nods as if she understands your meaning.

"I can get the bag and we can check, I'll bring a nappy" you see the way she pauses now as she watches you and the way you hold your baby girl, "I can get a camera too, you can take some photos of your little girl and we'll do her hand and footprints too" you nod unable to talk at this, the fact that all you will to take home with you is a card containing the imprint of her tiny hands and feet, and photographs. That you will walk away with empty arms. You at least have a few memories, Jac won't even have that and yet you know she won't come in even if the midwife asked again.

You watch as the midwife slips away quietly, leaving you for the first time alone with your baby. You try to force away the idea that it'll probably also be the last time. That this is the final moment of solo daddy-daughter time you will share together. You cradle her too you, and think of so many things. You rock her gently, and without even realising it you find yourself quietly singing the songs you had whispered to the bump when you had thought Jac to be sleeping, knowing she would tease you for it though you had caught her occasionally, when her ability to feign sleep had failed and she had worn a smile on her lips. You sing those words now as you rock her, words that had once been sang to you and that you had imagined one day singing to your grandchildren, that perhaps your girl would have sung to her children and they would have sung to theirs. Words transcending the decades, but those are dreams and plans that were too big that you had allowed to run away from you, and now you sing them to your daughter for the first time in your arms, and the last and you think of how much has been lost. How this girl is your miracle, the child who beat the odds to come in to existence, and how chances are she was your only chance to have that future, the grandchildren and your song being passed down. So much responsibility you had given to one so small, the passing down of your lineage and now you see that slip away.

You hear the creak of the door opening and you see the midwife return, bag in hand and an assortment of stuff in the other. You can see she is struggling and yet you do not rush to her aid as you would previously have done because that you think could endanger the baby in your arms, to try to juggle her and something else. So you wait and watch as finally she places the things she has brought on a table.

"Do you want to search for an outfit?" you can understand her hesitance at going through her patient's belongings, and you think it is something you should do. With a hesitance you make your way to the bassinet and gently place the baby down, whisper words that you will cuddle her again soon, that you need to find her something to wear. You talk to her as you would talk to any baby, and in some ways still you expect to see a drool bubble in response, a pursing of tiny lips though you know it is luck rather than conscious effort. You walk to the bag, and begin to rifle through, you are not careful. You see paraphernalia that you hadn't even known Jac had purchased, a breast pump that looks like an instrument of torture and shields that you don't quite understand the need for, you see all manner of things and you wonder now how much will actually be needed. The pump you know won't, that she will have to wait for her milk flow to cease, that it will do so without a baby to suckle at her breast stimulating the production. You think of the work her body has done preparing for the time when it will need to nourish their daughter as it had done for so many months, how it readied antibodies for her protection. You think of how much she has done for your daughter, and how in these last moments she is unable to be here with her. You think for a moment that in these months your role has been lessened, the strain of carrying your daughter her burden and yet you have worried and stressed as she has. You have felt as she has, though in a different way, wished you could take pain from her. People will see you both differently now.

Finally your hands come to rest on something that you pull out on instinct, and you smile at the sight of it. It is something you had almost forgotten and it touches you that she had thought to place this within the bag. It is an outfit, one you had bought not long in to her pregnancy and which you had kept hidden, scared that she would scorn you for having tempted fate by buying something so early but you had been unable to resist this. You think of the moment you had finally shown her, and how she had been scornful of pink, the gender stereotype that a baby girl – when they did not know their child was a girl – should wear that colour, and yet there had been a softness in her eyes as she had taken in the little outfit. It means a lot to you that this is the one she had chosen, that it is this she had picked to be one of the first pieces of clothing your daughter will wear. You had known as soon as you saw it hanging there, the only one left in the shop that this was perfect for your baby.

You bring it over to the bassinet and present it to her, though her tightly closed eyes will never see the butterflies which dance over the outfit, their wings delicate and filled with intricate patterns. You wonder what colour her eyes would be beneath those lids locked forever shut, and you frown for a moment. So much you will never know of her. The midwife arrives by you side, a nappy in hand and he knows this is his cue. Your time to dress your girl, ready for her to go.

Slowly you unwrap the towel which covers her tiny body, and you swallow hard as for the first time you take in her naked form. You think you hear words whispered by the midwife, aimed to comfort you, you think but you are deaf to them as you take her in. You swallow hard, at the sight of her. She is no less beautiful in your eyes, and yet she now looks so much more fragile and you are all the more terrified of how your next actions will affect her. Already you can see she is changing, that it had probably been happening long before now. You know this is not quite as you had thought, that she had been gone longer than you'd known. You think of the fast heartbeat you had heard, and you shudder knowing it was never hers.

You take the nappy from the midwife, and you try to steady your shaking hand, trying to remind the correct way of doing this. Some you think would tell you it doesn't matter, but to you it does. It needs to be perfect, and you go about your work slowly, knowing all the while that had she been alive you would have to move much more quickly. That she would wriggle and fight against you, making this a game as you try to secure it on knowing all the while it won't be long before you face this once more. But for you there is no resistance, there is no kicking out of legs, no risk of being peed upon and no grumbles like you are doing something torturous. Then you prepare yourself to dress her and again it is like nothing you have done before. You face no resistance and yet it is harder than you had anticipated, there is no help for you and you have to fight to be careful not to damage skin which is already so delicate. It takes you far longer than you had expected, and yet you are not hurried by anyone. There is no need to hurry.

"You look beautiful Miss Maconie" you announce it softly when finally you have her dressed and you smile. She looks as you had imagined, and you know you made the right choice, "no-one would ever be able to resist you" you whisper as you once more sweep her up in to your arms and cradle her against your body, knowing that soon you need to leave her, that you have to return to your daughter's mother but not quite yet. You are not ready. You turn now and see that the midwife has the camera in hand, and has been quietly taking photos of the two of you and for that you are grateful. You had almost forgotten that part of what she had said.

"We need to do your hand and footprints" you tell your baby, you try to brighten your voice like you would do when telling her you are going on an adventure together, "but don't worry it won't hurt" you walk with her to the table, and you look down at the card already prepared. Handprints, footprints. Words printed in a beautiful script, ready for moments like this. That something such as this is needed, is something you had never wished to think off, that some where they must have a supply of such items hurts. The midwife guides you through the process, lets you make the prints. You are gentle with your baby, and you watch as a part of her is left on the paper, a physical reminder that she had existed in this world. With shaking hands you take a tiny piece of hair from her head and place it down with the prints you have created. These are the things you will take home. With her in your arms, you reach once more in to the bag and feel for the thing you know has to be there, one of the first items that you had bought together. A blanket. You walk to a chair in the room, and prepare yourself.

This is the moment you dread, but you know, you know that now is the time and so you force yourself to sit and you feel the midwife slip in to the shadows as you swaddle your daughter and you whisper to her a bedtime story. You tell her the only one she will hear, and you curse yourself for the bits you don't get quite right, that you have muddled with another story. You hold her close until you are done and then holding her swaddled form, you carry her in your arms to the bassinet where you gentle place her. You know you have held her in your arms for the final time, though you wish it wasn't so. You whisper to her, as you gently press the blanket around her, that you will carry her with you forever; that she is forever within your heart.

With a heavy heart, you lean in to the bassinet, you place a kiss against her skin and trail a finger down her cheek. You whisper to her goodnight, cannot bare to say the other word. And then you draw yourself back. You look at her, drink her in and then you turn away. You turn and you walk wordlessly away from the bassinet, you walk to leave the room. So much of you screams for you to look back, for you to take one last look, to steal one last second. But you can't. You can't look back.


	4. I Can't Break Down

**Hopefully this is ok and a big thank you to anyone who is reading :) **

You crumble. The exact moment evades you, and the realisation takes a minute or two to dawn on you. Arms come around your body, pushing you downwards on to a chair and yet you barely feel this. You are aware of the warmth from the second body so close to your own, the way the plastic is hard and cold beneath you and yet they do not feel as they normally would. It's like you are not really here, your mind resides in an empty vessel, the feel of things ghostly like the memory of something that has occurred previously and not something you are currently experiencing.

You want to move. You brain is telling you, you need to get to her, to Jac.

Jac.

Just her name causes your heart rate to quicken. She needs you, and you need her. She is so very close to you, you are certain the door to her room is almost within touching distant though you are seeing little, unaware of your surroundings beyond the fact you are rested against a person and that you are in a hallway on Maternity. But you know she is here and that is all that matters.

But you cannot get to her. You know that if you stand your legs will be unable to bear the weight of your body, that you will fall backwards once more and that you will feel all the more a failure. You feel like you have failed her, that you have failed them both. You need to be with her and yet here you are, unable to move.

You become aware of the tears that are streaking down your cheeks, wetting the material beneath your head; the clothing of whoever holds you. You wonder how long it'll be before the liquid ceases, your body no longer able to produce tears because you have cried yourself dry. You wonder if you could cry red, your body forced to use whatever it has. That it would empty you all the more of the things keeping this vessel going, when the little person you love is waiting for you elsewhere, bring you close to that place.

You curse yourself, for the momentary thought that had made its way in to your head. That you had thought of leaving Jac, when she needs you and yet in this moment you are not sure how you can be strong for her. Every ounce of fight is leaving you, has been tucked in to the blanket in which you wrapped you daughter, was laced in with the words you had spoken to her. Your strength has gone with the baby girl who has taken your heart, leaving only the part which belongs to the woman who lies in wait for you.

And she is waiting. She is beyond the door, and she waits. She has waited while you have gone to your baby girl, despite the fact she will have needed you; needed your arms around her body and your love. You think of her, left with her thoughts in the room filled with silence. It should have been filled with coos, with love, with hope. You think of the thoughts that will chase through her head – that she could be blaming herself for this. That she could have needed your reassurance that you do not blame her, that you love her still. So much of this, the way your relationship is today is down to your baby girl and without her you are unsure and frightened and that you know will be heightened in the twisted mind of your love.

You want to run, because you are scared you are not enough. That you cannot fix this for her, or for yourself and that by running you can escape. You could run until you are ground your bones to nothing, until they can run no more. Until your body is as broken as you feel. It's physical state matching the emotional. You cannot run, can't because she is waiting and you love her. And you know, you know that running will not fix this – not for either of you. For her it'll prove her twisted logic – that it is her fault; that everyone leaves.

There is so much you could do but you cannot. You could drink until the point of oblivion but that will solve nothing other than to make you feel all the worse in the morning; that the sting of reality will hit tied with the guilt and the hangover. You could scream at the injustice of it all, screaming until your throat is raw and your voice is gone, until you have no words left but knowing there are never going to be enough words to express exactly how this feels.

You hear whispered words coming from the one who holds you and somehow your mind recognises the voice. Mo. She is here for you as she has been so many times before, and though you know she cannot fix this as she has fixed so many other things you find comfort in her. You can never quite categorise your relationship; certainly it has never been romantic but it is more than a friendship. She is so many things to you, and you could never repay the debt of gratitude you owe her. You try to give back to her some of what you have taken, but you know it is never enough. As you rest against her, you wonder if you could draw strength from her body in to your own, enough to at least make it in to the room.

That is all you have to do. You have to get yourself from here to there, to the moment of seeing her face once more and being there for her. You don't have to think beyond that, you hope instinct will guide you as it had with your daughter. That somehow you will know what needs to happen, in spite of fear and uncertainty. But you do not know how to get there.

Your friend is holding you tighter now, as if she is trying to hold you together, like the strength of her embrace is directly linked to your form holding together. Still she does not feel truly there. Like this is all a dream, a memory and yet you know you cannot wake up from this. This reality will not change following a night's sleep, this is your life now. You will return to a flat which was being readied for a new arrival who will never come. You will be forced to dismantle the cot in which she would have slept, box up the toys with which she would have played, you'll have to cancel the order of the pram for you had been told not to have it in the flat before the baby's arrival. Slowly you will have to wipe from your life the reality that you were going to be new parents, all the while dealing with the fact your arms ache for her; knowing that she existed.

You push away from your friend, you don't know why, it just seems to happen. In the same way you hadn't noticed her moving your body in to the chair, you barely notice that now you are sat a part from her. You look at her, the soft eyes filled with concern and sympathy for you. She knows what it is to leave a hospital with empty arms when they should have held a newborn, but she at the very least has the knowledge that out there her son is thriving. For you there isn't that comfort. You can imagine her, as being out there somewhere, that she will dance amongst stars and clouds with angels wings but even that pains you. For Mo, she can drive and sit quietly in her chair watching to catch a glimpse of the boy, you will never see the changes as your daughter grows.

You force yourself upright. You waver for a moment, but you stop her from holding you steady instead forcing your body to do so. You have to do this now. Something in you tells you that it's now or never; that you could sit for an eternity with your friend but that will not make this next step any easier. You know that she will stand close behind you, support for you and for that you will be grateful but you have to stand alone. You have to do this.

You see in your mind that face of your daughter, and that gives you strength. It causes your gut to contract with pain at the thought of never seeing it again, but you are doing this for her, for all of you.

You move stiffly and slowly, once more repeating your mantra as you step closer to the room in which Jac lies. The door handle seems heavy beneath your hand and you are forcing it to move, to swing the door open. The door too is sluggish in movement, like it needs it's hinges looked at and yet it had not been this way before. Finally it gives and the momentum of the movement almost causes you to fall forward, but you regain yourself and you walk in.

Then you see her. She is sitting on the edge of the bed, and has acquired scrubs from somewhere. Part of you guesses that she used some choices words with whichever member of staff was unfortunate enough to have come to her, and yet that to an extent causes you relief; that the old Jac could still be in there, rather than the blank version who you had seen before.

You look to Sacha, and find his expression unreadable. He too is looking to the woman on the bed.

"Jac?" hesitantly you speak her name, unsure of what to expect when she turns to face you. You can guess as to how she came to be wearing scrubs, the fact that she has freshened herself up but beyond that you are unsure. As you take her in more closely, you see she has placed her shoes on her feet and her hands are rested beneath her abdomen which will no empty of your child – a fact which causes a sob to rise in your throat – still shows evidence of being rounded beneath the scrub top.

"We're ready to go" her answer comes quickly as she turns to look at you, her expression strange to you. She does not show the sadness you expect to see, there is fear and pain in her eyes certainly but she does not have the look that you are certain you wear. She has already placed her feet to the ground and pushed away from the bed, she does so carefully; the way she has done since the swell of her uterus started to knock her centre of gravity and her instinct towards protecting their child, though now it is more to do with the strain her body has undergone, and the stitches she has received.

"Are you sure?" your own words are surprised. You had expected her to be in longer, that she would need observation and yet you know that women can be discharged quickly; indeed Mo had been but this case is different. If you go home, you know for certain she will not return to see the baby, and while you are not sure you could handle seeing her again for as long as she was within the hospital you had to option. She gives you a look, one you have come to know. She doesn't like you questioning her.

She nods, and you think. You wonder if it would be best to return to your flat over hers. In her flat, so much lies in wait for the baby that it will only serve to remind her all the more. You would argue that her own flat would offer home comforts, but Jac has little in that way. Her flat is in many ways in-different, you would know little of the woman who lived there based on her possessions. The only room which has personality is the nursery. If she had been her longer, you could have readied her flat, moved things to the nursery room until you were ready to face sorting things properly though you cannot be sure you can even enter that room. She has raised an eyebrow waiting for your response. From the twist of her lips you know that something in your expression is causing her annoyance to rise.

"We're fine" the words come out strangely, and you are unsure if you've heard her correctly. You turn to look at Sacha, her friend. His own expression is strange, he looks concerned and confused like he doesn't understand, or doesn't want to understand, what is going on. As he looks to you, you think you see the hint of an apology in his eyes, though for what you cannot be sure.

She walks towards the door and you are forced to follow with her friends bringing up the rear. As you go a purple folder is pushed in to your hands with a typed letter, Mo you note has been handed the bag from which you took your daughter's outfit. You know the folder contains the few physical artefacts of your daughter's life. You struggle to keep up with the red head.

"We're fine" she says again as you try to wrap an arm around her shoulders, as she shrugs you off.


End file.
